The Fool had always had the unique talent of creating a small world for himself when he wished to retreat. The tent was no exception. When I had visited it before, it had been charming, but empty. Now he occupied it and filled it with his presence. A small metal firepot in the center of the floor burned near smokelessly. A smell of cooking, something spicy, lingered in the air. Swift sat cross-legged on a tasseled cushion while the Fool was half-reclined on his pallet. Two arrows, one a dull gray, the other brightly painted and obviously the Fool's work, rested across Swift's knees.

“Did you require me, sir?” Swift asked quickly. I could hear his reluctance to leave in his voice.

I shook my head. “I didn't even know you were here,” I replied.

As the Fool sat up, I saw what had made Swift laugh. A tiny marionette dangled from his hand, with five fine black threads going to each of the Fool's fingertips. I had to smile. He had carved a tiny jester, done in black-and-white. The pallid face was his own, as it had been when he was a boy. White down hair floated around the little face. A twitch of one long finger set the creature's head to nodding at me. “So what brings you here, Tom Badgerlock?” the Fool and his puppet asked me. A shift of his finger made the little jester cock his head inquiringly at me.

“Fellowship,” I replied after a moment's pondering. I sat down on the opposite side of the fire from Swift. The boy gave me a resentful look and then glanced away.

The Fool's face was neutral. “I see. Welcome.” But there was no warmth in the words; I was an intruder. An awkward silence fell and I perceived in full the mistake I had made. The lad knew nothing of the connection between the Fool and me. I could not speak freely. Indeed, I could suddenly think of nothing at all to say. The boy sat staring glumly at the fire, obviously waiting for me to leave. The Fool began to unfasten the marionette from his fingertips, one string at a time.

“I've never seen a tent like this. Is it from Jamaillia?” Even to me, my query sounded like a polite nothing said to a chance acquaintance.

“The Rain Wilds, actually. The fabric is Elderling-made, I suspect, but I chose the patterns sewn into it.”

“Elderling-made?” Swift sat up with the avidity of a boy who senses a tale. A very faint smile played about the Fool's mouth. I suspected that he had seen the quickening of interest in my face, too.

“So the Rain Wild people say. Those who live far up the Rain Wild River. They say that once there were great cities there, and that the cities were the homes of the Elderlings. What exactly or who the Elderlings were is harder to tell. But in some places, buried deep in the muck of the Rain Wild swamps, there are cities of stone. Sometimes, one can find a way into them and, within whatever chambers have remained dry and intact, discover the treasures of another time and people. Some of the items they rescue are magical, with uses and abilities that not even the Rain Wilders completely understand. At other times, they find things that are just as we might make ourselves, but of a different quality.”

“Like this arrow?” Swift held up the gray arrow. “You said it came from the Rain Wilds. I've never seen wood such as this.”

The Fool's eyes flickered to me and then away. “It's wizardwood, a very rare wood. Even more rare than the fabric of this tent, which is finer than silk, and stronger than silk. I can crush all the fabric into a wad I could hold concealed inside my hand, yet stretched over the poles of the tent, it is sturdy, and so strongly woven that it holds warmth in and wind out.”

Swift reached out to run a wondering finger down one wall. “It's nice in here. Warmer than I had thought a tent could be. And I like the dragons on the walls.”

“So do I,” the Fool said. He reclined on his pallet again as he stared into the firepot. The tiny flames found twin homes in his eyes. I leaned back, away from the light, and studied him. There were planes and angles to his face that had never been there when we were children. His hair had seemed to gain substance with color. It no longer floated wildly around his face when it was loose, as it was now. Sleek as a horse's mane but far finer, it hung to his shoulders. “The dragons are why I am here.”

For a fraction of a moment, his eyes flickered to mine. I crossed my arms on my chest and leaned back deeper into the shadows.

“There are dragons in the Rain Wilds,” he went on, speaking to Swift. “But only one that is hearty and strong. Tintaglia is her name.”

The boy edged even closer to him. “Then the Bingtown Traders spoke truth? They have a dragon?”

The Fool cocked his head as if considering the answer. Again, that ghost of a smile bent his mouth. Then he shook his head. “That is not something I would say. Rather, I would say that there is a dragon in the Rain Wilds, and Bingtown falls within the territory she claims as her own. She is a magnificent creature, blue as good steel and silver as a gleaming ring.”